


Forty-One Days

by beetle



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: LOTR, M/M, The Hobbit - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:51:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the LJ hobbit_kink meme prompt: "Just saw The Hobbit AGAIN and I can assure you - Bofur and Bilbo are totally a thing. Bofur is in love. IN LOVE I TELL YOU! I've read many great fics where Bilbo is being courted and he's not aware so... Bofur informs Bilbo he's in love and would like to get married. Bilbo is flabbergasted but Bofur is a bit clueless why would Bilbo want to reject him. Hobbits and Dwarves? Totally compatibile! Two men? Yeah, um, so? He's gonna have 1/14 of the treasure! He's been told he's a proficient lover!! Bonus points for Bifur and Bombur flanking Bofur all the time during the courting."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Forty-Days 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Warnings: Forty ficlets and one longer fic (divided up into eleven postings) set post the successful retaking of Erebor. A sequel to "Plighting Troth and Other Exigencies."
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own this stuff.

I

  
  
Bofur presents him with the first gift the very next morning.  
  
Bilbo is in the cold room, about to collect supplies for breakfast—and a  _lot_  of supplies, as the only beings with more hearty appetites than hobbits are dwarves—and mentally compiling a list for his next trip to market when a throat clears itself behind him.  
  
Starting, he turns around to find Bofur standing there, looking sheepish and holding out his closed hand.  
  
Off Bilbo's questioning look, he blushes and clears his throat again.  
  
“It's the next love-gift: a wrist-mounted miniature timepiece,” he says, opening his hand and revealing what looks like a silver bracelet, plainly wrought, but with a small clock-face covered with a circle of glass. The hands are even moving, like on a full-sized clock. “I invented it myself. This is the prototype.”  
  
“Oh, Bofur—this is  _amazing_!” Bilbo breathes, reaching out to touch the timepiece. But before he can, Bofur is grinning and enclosing it around Bilbo's left wrist. The silver is cool and somehow soft on Bilbo's skin.  
  
“I call it a  _look_ , since you can look at it and know what time it is.” Bofur closes the complicated looking hasp and takes Bilbo's hand, holding it up a little to admire his wrist. “It looks lovely on you. But then, anything would.”  
  
Bilbo blushes and glances at the look again. It appears to keep time precisely. But then, it's dwarven-made, so of course it does.  
  
Bilbo smiles and hold out his arms.  
  
With one quick glance at the door to make sure they're truly alone—and they are—Bofur goes into Bilbo's arms quickly, without hesitation, embracing Bilbo almost desperately. Lifting him up off the ground for a few moments, before putting him down and kissing him. Not quite wantonly, but intensely, with pent-up yearning that curls Bilbo's toes and makes him moan softly.  
  
On his wrist, the look precisely ticks away the few precious seconds they have before Bifur or Bombur come to separate them.  
  


II

  
  
It's midnight, and Bilbo can't sleep.  
  
He's too busy thinking about his guests, who've taken up the guest bedroom (Bofur) and two of Bag End's other bedrooms.  
  
The first day was an easy day, of getting them situated and making sure they knew house rules, but this second day, when they'll no doubt want to be out and about, exploring the Shire, well . . . the thing is, Bilbo's neighbors have already, no doubt, noticed the ponies and the dwarves who'd come straight to Bilbo's door (yet again) and have questions. But this day that approaches is the day Bilbo will have to answer them. And how will he do that, exactly?  
  
 _Yes, this is my dwarf suitor and his two brothers, who are playing chaperons, since apparently, my suitor and I can't keep our hands off each other. Even though we have to for the next forty-one days, according to dwarvish custom. . . ._  
  
Bilbo rolls onto his side and sighs. It'll be hard enough explaining the fact that he's got three dwarves as guests, period, but the suitor business . . . not that his neighbors and friends will take issue with the fact that Bilbo is being courted by a dwarf, but they  _will_  find it exceedingly  _odd_ , on top of the fact that yet another Took has gone fey.  
  
 _Ah, well,_  Bilbo thinks with almost carefree resignation.  _I was never going to be thought of as_ normal _after I went on my adventure. I suppose this is just icing on the odd-cake. And so what if I'm fey! So what if I've taken a dwarf for a suitor! It's nobody's business but my own!_  
  
“Damned right!” Bilbo says out loud, rolling onto his back again and pounding the bed for emphasis.  
  
Though, that settled, five minutes later—according to the look, which sits on his nightstand, quietly ticking to itself—he's still wide awake, and he has no idea why.  
  
Well, he has  _some_  idea. It mostly has to do with the way Bofur had kissed him early yesterday morning, in the cold room, after giving him the look. Though Bofur'd given no sign for the rest of the day, Bilbo had known he was the subject of many a sidelong glance from the dwarf, and for his part, Bilbo had wanted nothing more than to be in Bofur's arms, being kissed as if their very lives depended on it. He'd wanted—  
  
Bilbo starts at the soft knock at his bedroom door.  
  
Throwing back the covers, Bilbo gets up and pads across the room. When he opens the door, he's both surprised and not to find Bofur standing there, looking nervous and hopeful at the same time. He's still wearing his day clothes, though he's eschewed the tunic for plain shirtsleeves and waistcoat. He's not wearing his hat and the braids are no longer coiled about his head, but loose around his broad shoulders.  
  
He looks . . . every inch a gentledwarf and a suitor, and Bilbo's heart skips several beats.  
  
Bofur bows and produces from behind his back a canvas-wrapped package.  
  
“A bit early for gift-giving, isn't it?” Bilbo asks, smiling, and Bofur smiles back.  
  
“Well,  _this_  gift is one I prefer to give you in private, without worrying about whether one of my brothers will walk in and see.” He holds the package out to Bilbo who takes it. It's weighty, but not heavy, and pliant. Like cloth, of some sort.  
  
“You'd best come in, then,” Bilbo says, blushing, but standing aside to let Bofur into his bedroom. But Bofur shakes his head no, putting his hands behind his back once more.  
  
“I'd best  _not_ , actually,” he says softly, his eyes sweeping hungrily, pointedly over Bilbo's dressing gown-clad form. “In the interests of your purity remaining . . . intact.”  
  
Bilbo turns even redder, and he glances away from the hungry heat in Bofur's dark eyes.  
  
“But I  _will_  stay to see you open the gift,” Bofur says after a few awkward moments, and Bilbo swallows and nods, fingers already plucking at the twine holding the canvas closed. What peeks out when he finally pushes some of the canvas back is moon-white cloth, softer than clouds, and with a faint sheen like starshine seen through mist. The one visible edge of cloth he can see is embroidered with green and silver leaves. . . .  
  
Bilbo looks up at Bofur, gaping. “Is this—“ he begins, and Bofur nods, smiling a smile that promises many things, indeed.  
  
“Sheets made of Lorien silk.” Bofur steps as close to Bilbo as he can without crossing the threshold of the doorway. “For our wedding night.”  
  
That red must surely go to the tips of Bilbo's ears, now. They certainly  _feel_  hot enough.  
  
“They're . . .  _beautiful_. Thank you,” Bilbo whispers, clutching the sheets to his chest tightly, his eyes wide as he stares at Bofur almost pleadingly. “Are you . . .  _sure_  you don't want to come in for a little bit?”  
  
Bofur's wicked smile turns very wry. “I'm sure I  _do_ , Bilbo. But I mustn't. Tradition.” He shrugs, resigned and agitated. Bilbo bites his lip and turns to place the sheets on the nearest convenient surface—which happens to be a chair—before turning back to Bofur, who's watching him with the same yearning and desperation that'd been in that kiss earlier.  
  
“Well, if you won't come in here, I suppose I shall have to come out there,” Bilbo says, stepping over the threshold and into Bofur's instantly opened arms. They embrace each other loosely, looking into each other's eyes for long moments.  
  
“I cannot  _wait_  to have you on those sheets,” Bofur murmurs and Bilbo sighs, tucking his head under Bofur's chin.  
  
“And I can't wait to be  _had_  on those sheets,” he replies shakily, as the hardness of the previous evening presses against his abdomen . . . and it is  _not_  alone. “Though you could have me in this hallway, if you wanted. Right now.”  
  
Bofur groans and squeezes Bilbo tight against him, his breath shuddering and shaking out of him. His hands slide down Bilbo's back, to his backside, where they clench tightly . . . before letting go. Then he takes Bilbo's arms and pushes him back a few steps. Their gazes lock, desperate and yearning meeting the same, and Bilbo reaches up to brush a few braids back over Bofur's shoulder, then caresses his face tenderly.  
  
“Bilbo Baggins . . . our first time together as lovers will  _not_  be a rushed act in a hallway . . . no matter how much we might want that at this moment,” Bofur says ruefully, leaning into Bilbo's touch. Bilbo sighs, nodding.  
  
“You're right—of course, you're right,” he says quietly, then crooks a half-smile at Bofur. “But it just feels as if I'll die if you don't touch me.”  
  
Bofur cups Bilbo's face in his hands gently and leans in to kiss his eyelids, his forehead, and the tip of his nose, before kissing his lips.  
  
“You are . . . so comely and so fair,” he says, stealing another kiss. And another, drinking them down as if they're wine. “So  _innocent_. And I would not take that innocence from you in such a . . . disrespectful, inconsiderate manner.  
  
“Let me follow the traditions of my people, Bilbo, and prove my love to you in a way that will make me  _worthy_  of you.”  
  
Bilbo finds himself nodding, once more, and Bofur smiles and kisses him again, sweetly, rather than wantonly. He backs them toward the bedroom until Bilbo is in the doorway, then breaks the kiss reluctantly, his thumbs stroking Bilbo's cheeks.  
  
“Till morning, my love,” he says, their noses brushing. Bilbo sighs again.  
  
“Till morning.”  
  
And with that, Bofur's gone, as silently as he'd come, leaving Bilbo to turn back into his bedroom and shut the door.  
  
He picks up the silk sheets and hugs them to his chest again.  
  
 _Thirty-nine more days of this,_  he thinks, with a mix of excitement and frustration.  
  
Then placing the sheets in his mother's hope chest, he goes back to bed. He doesn't fall asleep till almost dawn, and when he does, it's with a tired, wanked-out body and a full heart.  
  


*

  
  
That very day, the four of them and one pony set out for the market.  
  
Bilbo is on Bofur's arm, and the pair are flanked by Bifur (with the pony) on Bofur's side, and Bombur on on Bilbo's. The stares they get—from the moment they step out of Bilbo's gate—are enough to bring a blush to Bilbo's cheeks. Never mind when Bofur leans in to whisper: “You are _lovely_  when you blush, my dear Mister Baggins,” then kisses him on the cheek.  
  
The dwarves, with the exception of a grumpy Bifur, greet the folks of Hobbiton pleasantly enough, with waves and smiles and nods, getting the same in return, for the most part, if a bit hesitantly. Though some of the usual suspects grumble about “that  _odd_  Baggins bringing furreners through town.”  
  
Those to whom Bilbo introduces Bofur as his suitor seem rather unsurprised, at either Bilbo's feyness or his choice in suitors. It's a little disconcerting.  
  
“I must say, you hobbits are quite an accepting lot,” Bofur notes after the fourth such introduction, where little surprise was evinced.  
  
“Well, I  _am_  just confirming something they already surmised about me: I'm just as odd as every other Baggins and Took ever to live in Hobbiton.” Bilbo sighs, swinging Bofur's hand a little. It feels good around his own, both rough and gentle.  
  
“You  _are_  an odd little thing, yes,” Bofur says fondly, giving Bilbo a sideways glance. “But you're _my_  odd little thing.”  
  
“Well, thanks.” Bilbo rolls his eyes, but his face heats up.  
  
At the market place, Bombur livens up, and he and Bilbo do most of the shopping, while Bofur and Bifur do most of the carrying, along with the pony.  
  
They get more deference in that one trip than Bilbo's ever been shown in his entire lifetime beforehand. No one bird-dogs the apricots he wants, or the squashes he likes, or the mutton he reaches for. They take one look at the brawny, tall—relatively—dwarves, and their axes, and hang back, waiting for Bilbo to be done with his picking and choosing.  
  
 _I ought to come shopping with three large dwarves more often,_  he thinks wryly, thumping a melon and putting it back.  _Though, if all goes well, I'll be doing this weekly with at least _one_ large dwarf . . . assuming that dwarf wants to live here, and not in Erebor. . . ._  
  
Frowning, Bilbo absently puts back another melon.  
  


III

  
  
Bilbo's in his garden early on the third day. The sun's barely risen to a respectable height and there're barely any neighbors about.  
  
It's a perfect time to get some gardening  _and_  some thinking done.  
  
His guests are still asleep and he's glad of this, needing some time to himself. Time to get the aforementioned thinking done. And what he's mostly thinking about is going to live in Erebor . . . effectively leaving the Shire for the rest of his life.  
  
That is, of course, if he says yes to the proposal, when it comes. And Bilbo knows himself well enough to know that unless Bofur does or says something amazingly awful in the intervening time, that he  _will_  be saying  _yes_.  
  
Which means that leaving the Shire is a very real possibility. And he couldn't, in all fairness, ask a dwarf to settle in with a bunch of hobbits. That'd be like asking a tiger to settle in with a bunch of housecats, he supposes, and honestly can't imagine Bofur fitting in in the Shire, anyway.  
  
At least, he doesn't  _think_  he can imagine it. . . .  
  
“You're up early.”  
  
Bilbo starts, then finds himself looking up at Bofur, who's wearing clothes similar to what he'd worn on their adventure, only of finer make. And, of course, the hat. His hands are behind his back, which means the gift of the day.  
  
Smiling, Bilbo sweeps a hand at the garden. “Won't weed itself. Believe me, I know this for a fact.”  
  
Bofur grins. “Then perhaps it's time to present you with today's present . . . I received this from the Lady of Lorien.” Bofur brings his hands forward, and he's holding a wooden box only slightly larger than the chest of books had been. “She called me a prince of storytellers, and granted me one boon.” Proudly, Bofur opens the box to reveal . . . soil.  _Rich_ , loamy soil that smells of far off places. And there are what appears to be . . . cuttings in the soil. Bilbo's brow furrows.   
  
“It's from her very own garden,” Bofur goes on. “When she asked what I would have of her, I begged of her earth, and cuttings from her most beautiful plants. This was what she gave me.”  
  
Putting down his spade, Bilbo stands up and takes the heavy box, inhaling deeply.  
  
“Oh, and there was also this,” Bofur adds, digging in his right pocket for a piece of folded parchment. “She says they're instructions on how to spread the soil and where to place the cuttings, and when.”  
  
Bilbo looks at the instructions, then back at the box of soil and cuttings. “To be grown h-here, at Bag End, I take it?” he asks quietly, without daring to hope, and Bofur's own brow furrows.  
  
“But of course. Where else would we grow such precious things, but our home?” Bofur takes the box of soil—which is  _heavy_ —and kneels, placing it next to the hole in which Bilbo had been rooting about. Then he looks up at Bilbo, smiling knowingly. “Even with Lorien soil to help it along, these cuttings wouldn't flourish very well under a mountain, would they?”  
  
Bilbo kneels next to Bofur and takes off his dirty gloves. He cups Bofur's face in his hands and kisses the corner of his mouth.  
  
“No, I suppose not,” he replies, relief flooding him, as well as a wave of gratitude and fondness and something else that proves to be as elusive in the naming as it is in the catching. All Bilbo can do is gaze into Bofur's dark eyes and wish the days would go by faster.  
  
Finally, Bofur's arm slides around his waist, pulling him in for a  _real kiss_. One that only ends when they're both out of breath and the sun's markedly higher in the sky.  
  
Even as, together, they follow Lady Galadriel's instructions for spreading the soil and planting the cuttings, Bilbo can't imagine Bofur fitting in in the Shire. Can't imagine what that would look like or be like. But he knows he can't imagine the rest of his life without Bofur either, whether he fits in or not.  
  
And he'll never have to, it's beginning to seem like. Which is good, because he's never been that long on imagination, anyway.  
  


IV

  
  
The very next morning, quite early, Bilbo is awakened by a knock his bedroom door.  
  
“Ungh—come in,” he calls, sitting up groggily, rubbing his eyes in the grey-yellow light of dawn. And to his utter surprise, three dwarves troop in, Bofur in the lead, carrying a tray with what appears to be . . .  _breakfast_  on it.  
  
Bilbo rubs his eyes again, certain they've deceived him mightily.  
  
“Good morning, love,” Bofur says warmly, approaching Bilbo's bed and sitting on the edge, next to Bilbo. He places the tray over Bilbo's legs. On it are singed pancakes, runny eggs, a bowl of lumpy porridge, and sausages cooked to perfection. And the centerpiece of this tray of delights is a small glass vase with a life-sized  _rose_ , stem and all, made out of amazingly detailed  _rose-gold_.  
  
Bilbo blinks up at Bofur, who's still smiling proudly. “You did all this for me?”  
  
Bofur nods. “Well, everything except the rose. That was Fili's handiwork. I asked him to make me a rose. One that would never fade: flawless and undying.” He searches Bilbo's eyes. “Like my love for you.”  
  
Coloring, Bilbo takes the rose—and resists the insane urge to sniff it, so life-like it is—and holds it up to the light. He turns it every which way, examining it, finding no flaws and indeed, no sign of wilting.  
  
Then he holds the rose to his heart, tears prickling behind his eyes as he gazes into Bofur's. “Thank you. For the rose, and most especially for what it stands for,” he says, leaning in to kiss Bofur, who kisses him back with marvelous restraint that does nothing to hide the true ardor behind the kiss. They separate quickly, before Bifur and Bombur can say or do anything.  
  
Bofur clears his throat—he's quite red about the face—and nods at the tray. “Well, eat up, before it gets cold.”  
  
Bilbo, still holding the rose, looks down at his breakfast. At the singed pancakes, runny eggs, lumpy porridge, and perfect sausages. Then he thinks of the likely state of his kitchen.  
  
 _It's the thought that counts,_  he tells himself, placing the rose back in its vase and taking up his fork. He starts with the comestible that's least likely to kill him: the sausages.


	2. Forty-One Days 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the LJ hobbit_kink meme prompt: "Just saw The Hobbit AGAIN and I can assure you - Bofur and Bilbo are totally a thing. Bofur is in love. IN LOVE I TELL YOU! I've read many great fics where Bilbo is being courted and he's not aware so... Bofur informs Bilbo he's in love and would like to get married. Bilbo is flabbergasted but Bofur is a bit clueless why would Bilbo want to reject him. Hobbits and Dwarves? Totally compatibile! Two men? Yeah, um, so? He's gonna have 1/14 of the treasure! He's been told he's a proficient lover!! Bonus points for Bifur and Bombur flanking Bofur all the time during the courting."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: Set post the successful retaking of Erebor.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own this stuff.

V

  
  
By the fifth night, Bilbo can tell the dwarves are getting a bit restless, so he decides it's time for an outing to Bywater, and the Green Dragon.  
  
“You'll pardon the name,” he says as they approach the brightly lit inn. There aren't as many stares at the Dragon as there had been at market, but they still get noticed, Bofur holding Bilbo's hand and Bifur and Bombur shadowing them like an honor guard.  
  
“I don't know that the ale is as . . . strong as dwarven ale, but it's still very good, nonetheless,” Bilbo says when they step into the light and warmth of the Green Dragon. Pretending he comes to the Green Dragon every night, let alone with three dwarves in tow, Bilbo squeezes Bofur's hand and marches up to the bar. The barman's eyes widen as he takes in the three—basically four—strangers awaiting his service.  
  
“Good evening. My friends and I will have four ales, please.” He raises his voice to be heard over the din of laughter and singing. The barman's eyebrows quirk, but he nods and starts grabbing steins. When all four ales have been poured and handed 'round, Bilbo turns to his guests and smiles. “It's usually not this much of a madhouse . . . I don't think. Finding a table together'll be something of a—er, Bifur?”  
  
But the dwarf's wandered off into the crowd, to a table with three of the four seats taken by drunken, laughing hobbits. He leans down and whispers something in the ear of a red-headed hobbit with a long nose covered in freckles. The young hobbit's head tilts curiously, and he finally nods, rousting his friends to their feet. Without further exchange, they move away from the table.  
  
Bifur sits, and looks back through the crowd at his brothers and Bilbo, and waves them over.  
  
Glancing at each other, the three make their way through the crowd—garnering stares as they go—to the table and sit down.  
  
“What on Earth did you tell them to make them give up their table?” Bilbo asks, and Bifur, for the second time in Bilbo's acquaintance, smiles, but says nothing, looking smug. Meanwhile, the three hobbits who had been at the table are standing not far away, whispering to each other fiercely, between sneaking glances at Bofur. Soon, it seems like the whole barroom is whispering to each other and looking at their table. At  _Bofur_ , specifically.  
  
Finally, the red-headed hobbit, obviously steeling himself, comes back over to the table, hovering at Bofur's elbow, waiting to be noticed. He doesn't have to wait long.  
  
“Can I help you, lad?” Bofur asks, and the hobbit turns as red as his hair.  
  
“Well—that is . . . could we have a story from you?” Blushing even harder, the hobbit sneaks a look at Bifur. “Your fellow dwarf told us that you were praised as a prince of storytellers by none other than the Lady of Lorien, herself, and . . . we were hoping, since it's such a rare honor to have someone like you in the Shire, of all places, that we might hear one of your stories.”  
  
Bofur looks surprised, to say the least. He turns his gaze on his scowling brother, then on Bilbo, whose hand he squeezes. “I don't mind sharing a tale or two with these fine folk, if it doesn't bother you.”  
  
Bilbo grins. “I'd like to hear a tale or two, myself. It's been a while,” he says, leaning in to kiss Bofur's cheek. Bofur allows it for a moment before turning his face to capture Bilbo's lips tenderly, but briefly, aware, no doubt, of the eyes upon them. Not just Bifur and Bombur's, but the entire common room.  
  
“I've got just the thing, then,” Bofur murmurs softly. “Something you've never heard, but which may have a familiar ring, nonetheless.”  
  
Bilbo's eyebrows shoot up at the mischievous lilt in Bofur's voice and he watches his suitor stand up, eyes twinkling, and nod at the crowd gathered around their table, holding up his hands for silence.  
  
“This first tale is entitled  _The Canny Hobbit and the Three Mountain Trolls_ ,” Bofur says, with a wink for Bilbo, who blushes, though all around him  _ooh_  and  _aah_ , exchanging surprised glances with each other, already impressed and clapping. “This story won me a boon from the Lady of Lorien, and will hopefully help win me something I deem even more precious.”  
  
And with that, Bofur bows deeply in Bilbo's direction, to somewhat scattered—somewhat confused—applause and Bilbo's now fiercely crimsoned face.  
  
Clearing his throat, Bofur begins with the words of every great—and quite a few not-so-great—storytellers:  
  
“Once upon a time,” he starts, projecting his voice and commanding the attention of every hobbit in the common room. “Once upon a time, there lived in the mountains, three trolls of hideous visage and even more hideous appetite. One day, when food had become noticeably scarce, these three trolls took it upon themselves to descend from their high places in the mountains, and into the farmlands and fields of men. . . .”  
  


*

  
  
They walk back to Bag End, later that evening (practically the next morning), holding hands and sharing longing glances. Bilbo pauses after they've let themselves into the front gate of Bag End and turns to Bofur, who takes his other hand and smiles.  
  
“That was indeed a princely story, you know,” Bilbo says, glancing back the way they'd come. Bifur and Bombur have fallen somewhat behind, thanks to too much ale and food. They are, in fact, nowhere to be seen. So, smiling, Bilbo turns to Bofur again. “You made the hobbit in your tale seem much braver than I'm certain he would have felt.”  
  
Grinning, Bofur slides his arms around Bilbo's waist without letting go of his hands, effectively trapping his hands behind his back. But Bilbo doesn't mind at all. Especially not when Bofur pulls him close and kisses him.  
  
“Ah, well, that hobbit is far too modest, then,” Bofur says between kisses, pulling Bilbo tight against him.  _He_ , at least, had not had too much ale. The proof of that is pressed rather urgently against Bilbo's abdomen.  
  
Bofur moans when Bilbo wiggles against him, his kisses wending their way down Bilbo's cheek, to his throat. Bilbo frees his hands and wraps his arms around Bofur's neck, sighing as those rough, gentle hands slide down to his backside where they clench and knead possessively.  
  
In minutes, Bofur's not the only one who's hard and moaning.  
  
“I say: bugger tradition,” Bilbo mutters, grinding against Bofur's thigh as Bofur does the same against his abdomen.  
  
“I'd rather be buggering  _you_.” Bofur laughs breathlessly, suddenly sweeping Bilbo into his arms, carrying him up the steps and to the front door. It's a work of some few seconds to get the door open without putting Bilbo down, but Bofur manages, somehow, bearing the hobbit inside and kicking the door closed behind them.  
  
They kiss again until, breathless, once more, Bofur looks in both directions down the curving hall. “Your bed, or mine?”  
  
“Er . . . mine?”  
  
“Grand idea.” Bofur kisses him again, and carries Bilbo to his bedroom.  
  
Once there, laughing again, now, they kiss in the doorway, Bofur walking them forward toward Bilbo's bed. He places Bilbo down gently and straightens up, gazing down at Bilbo for long moments, till he starts to frown. Bilbo blushes, and sits up on his elbows.  
  
“Is something the matter?” he asks quietly, nervously. “Am I not. . . ?”  
  
“No, you are  _lovely_. You are  _everything_ ,” Bofur says gently, sitting on the bed next to Bilbo with a sigh. “And that's why I find myself . . . hesitant to ravish you.”  
  
Sitting up fully, Bilbo scoots to the edge of the bed and puts a hand tentatively on Bofur's strong shoulder. “Tradition?”  
  
Bofur snorts. “No, nothing so cold as tradition, Bilbo Baggins.” When he looks at Bilbo, there's quiet desperation in his eyes, and yearning. But also there is a strength of will there, and determination that Bilbo recognizes. He'd often seen that same look in Thorin's eyes, once upon a journey.  
  
“I have taken this path because you are worthy of being courted and shown the utmost respect. And now that I'm on that path . . . I find that I cannot easily step off it, or do you dishonor by not following through with what I started.” Bofur sighs again, and Bilbo takes his arm and leans his head on Bofur's shoulder.  
  
“It would be no dishonor to have the prince of storytellers make love to me, Bofur. No mater when it happened.” Bilbo smiles a little, looking up at Bofur. “But if this tradition means so much to you, then it means a lot to me, too. And I'll stand by your decision to wait . . . even though it's bloody  _killing me_.”  
  
“And me,” Bofur says, but smiling down at Bilbo. Then he leans down to kiss Bilbo's forehead. “But I would honor you, my love. I would show you in ways words never can, just how long I'd be willing to wait for you.”  
  
Bilbo smiles and closes his eyes just in time for a sweet, chaste kiss that only barely brushes the corner of his mouth.  
  
And that's how Bifur and Bombur, out of breath and clearly anticipating having to pull their brother and his lover apart with main force, find them some minutes later: Bilbo nodding off on Bofur's shoulder, and Bofur telling Bilbo the tale of their travels from Erebor, to the Shire.  
  


VI

  
  
The next gift appears when, early the next morning, Bilbo goes to prepare breakfast, and begins taking out his pots and pans. Only . . . they're not  _his_  old copper-bottomed pots and pans.  
  
No, these pots and pans are shining and  _copper all over_ , except for the insides, which are of course, lined. Probably with nickel.  
  
Wide-eyed and awe-stricken, he slowly takes out the frying pan first, which is what he always does, and looks it over, stroking the copper curve of it like a lover.  
  
“Do you like them?”  
  
Startled, Bilbo turns to see Bombur standing there in the kitchen entryway, chafing his hands and looking anxious. “Bofur wanted to commission some hideous brooch for you, instead, but I told  _him_  that more than something useless and ugly, you'd want something useful and, if I do say so myself, quite lovely, in their own way. And hobbit-sized!” Bombur adds, clearly proud of himself.  
  
Bilbo smiles and stands up, holding the pan. He approaches Bombur and, before he loses his nerve, kisses the dwarf on the cheek. “They're  _wonderful_ , Bombur.”  
  
Looking surprised, himself, Bombur blushes and stammers. “Well. It was my idea, but Bofur oversaw the work and paid for it. I think that kiss should go to  _him_.”  
  
Bilbo's smile turns absent, and though he doesn't know it, lascivious. “Oh, don't you worry. Bofur will be getting a kiss from me . . . and  _how_. Er . . . that is. A good, chaste peck on the cheek.” He nods, smiling his most innocent smile. Which is very innocent, but Bombur clearly sees right through it.  
  
“Right,” the heavy-set dwarf says, sniffing. “Well. So long as you two don't have to be pried apart. Again.”  
  
Bilbo clutches his knew copper pan and makes Bombur no promises.  
  


VII

  
  
The next day, it's too rainy to be gardening or doing much of anything that involves being outside of a nice, comfy hobbit-hole.  
  
Bifur is in his room, sleeping, and Bombur is in the kitchen, cooking lunch, when Bofur, who'd been smoking and nodding in front of the living room fire, wakes up and looks over at Bilbo, who's reading one of the books of elvish poetry.  
  
“I suppose it's time for today's present,” Bofur says gruffly, and Bilbo looks up, distracted and a little breathless.  
  
“There's no rush. It's barely past noon.”  
  
“Aye, but on a day such as this, time drags without something to pass it.” Bofur stands up and stretches. “I'll be right back.”  
  
Then he's hurrying out of the living room. Only to return five minutes later with a wooden box with three metal latches. He comes up to Bilbo almost marching, proudly, presenting the box, which is the length and width of a small end table, and painted with a black and white checkered pattern.  
  
Bilbo puts down his book, forgetting to mark the page, and takes the box. It's heavier than it looks, but not too heavy to hold up. He places it on his lap and looks up at Bofur again. The dwarf nods, and Bilbo undoes the latches and flips back the top. . . .  
  
Brow furrowed in curiosity, he reaches in among the strange little carvings and pulls out one shaped like a horse's head and looks it over.  
  
“The game is called  _chess_ ,” Bofur says Bilbo puts down the horse's head to examine another piece that looks like a castle. “It's one of many games come north with sailing men and merchants from the south and east . . . it's not terribly hard to learn, but incredibly hard to master.  
  
“I can teach you, if you'd like . . . and it'd be a good way to pass a miserable afternoon,” Bofur finishes, reaching out to brush Bilbo's smooth cheek with the calloused tips of his fingers. Bilbo looks up and smiles.  
  
“I'd be willing to bet there's a lot you can teach me . . . all sorts of fun ways to pass a rainy afternoon,” Bilbo says archly, turning his head to nip Bofur's fingers gently, trapping the dwarf's hand against his cheek with his own. Bofur makes a choked sound low in his throat.  
  
“We . . . we agreed that we would p-play by the rules. Tradition, remember?” Bofur asks, watching with wide eyes as Bilbo nuzzles and kisses his fingers.  
  
“We agreed that  _you_  wouldn't bugger me before our engagement. That  _you_  would behave like a perfect gentledwarf. However,” Bilbo adds, closing his lips around the tips of Bofur's fingers for a moment before slowly pulling off. “We said nothing about  _me_  behaving like a gentledwarf. Or about me making this easy on you, Master Forty-One Presents.”  
  
Bofur swallows. “But Bilbo, love—“ he starts in a voice that's rough with wanting, and the frustration of not having. “We can't. . . .”  
  
Bilbo sighs, leaving one final kiss on Bofur's fingers, his own hand fingers trailing up to Bofur's wrist before falling away. “I know. And I  _am_  curious about this game of yours. A game played with carvings, no less.” He blinks up at Bofur from under his lashes. “Teach me, Bofur?”  
  
Bofur swallows again and nods, tugging his tunic down very low. “Anything you want,” he says, finally taking the set from Bilbo, who stands up and puts himself squarely in Bofur's space.  
  
“Well, I  _want_  a kiss before we start playing,” Bilbo murmurs, standing on his toes to receive that kiss. But Bofur merely pecks him on the corner of the mouth after several moments of thoughtful hesitation.  
  
This will  _not_  do.  
  
Bilbo grabs two handfuls of Bofur's tunic and pulls him down into another kiss. Bofur protests halfheartedly, said protest muffled by Bilbo's mouth. Then he's moaning into the kiss, one hand holding the chess set out of the way, the other wrapping around Bilbo's waist. Bilbo's soft, gentle hands come up to cup Bofur's face.  
  
“I can't wait for the night,” Bilbo breathes, each word another kiss. “That we two become one, as the elves say.”  
  
Bofur leans back a little, brow furrowed. “What on Earth was  _in_  those books?”  
  
“Oh, loads of poetry—some of it  _very_  erotic.” Bilbo grins. “And that's what I've been reading all morning, wishing you would find  _some_  way or excuse to  _touch me_.” Laughing a little, self-deprecatingly, Bilbo sighs. “Then I decided to take matters into my own hands. I just couldn't wait to kiss you anymore. To touch you, a-and taste you, and—”  
  
Bofur reaches up and caresses Bilbo's cheek again. “I know the waiting is difficult. But it'll be worth it, in the end. Believe me.” Bofur leans in to steal another kiss, this one light and teasing. “We'll put all that elvish love poetry to shame.”  
  
“I have your word on that Master Bofur?” Bilbo whispers, and Bofur nods.  
  
“My word that when the time comes, Bilbo Baggins . . . oh,  _when the time comes. . . ._ ” he breathes, leaning in once more.  
  
Then they're kissing again, with all the pent-up yearning and desire that any two such lovers would feel at being constrained to nothing more than stolen kisses on a rainy day.  
  
When Bombur emerges from the kitchen fifteen minutes later to announce lunch, it's to find his brother and Mister Baggins sitting cross-legged on the floor, in front of the fire, engaged in a game of  _chess_.  
  
Nothing seems amiss, no clothing is askew, but there's more red in their cheeks than mere firelight can account for. . . .  
  
Bombur is extremely vigilant for the rest of the afternoon.  
  


VIII

  
  
The next day, the love-gift is presented after breakfast: small casks of spices from the south.  
  
Spices with exotic names, some savory, some sweet, some a mixture of both. Some the very color of the earth they grew in, others the color of a Shire sunset. Bilbo is quite overwhelmed, and uncertain what to do with such riches. Oh, he's a good enough cook— _damned_  good, if he does say so, himself—but he's never, in his life, seen or even heard tell of spices such as these. . . .  
  
“Thank you so much—I don't know what to say,” Bilbo stammers, looking at all all three of them, though his eyes linger on Bofur, who flushes and dimples.  
  
“And if you're at a loss as to how to use them, I can tell you about most of them,” Bombur says proudly. Bofur smiles a little.  
  
“Our mother was a splendid cook and, having no daughters, passed her skills on to Bombur,” he says, not at all jokingly, but with a certain pride. Then he sighs. “She was a talented craftswoman, too. She passed that on to all of us.”  
  
“Aye,” Bifur says softly, his impatient gaze turning briefly melancholy.  
  
Bilbo reaches across the table to touch each other their hands, Bifur's last of all. The touch surprises the dwarf into looking at Bilbo with a gaze as unguarded as a child's. What Bilbo sees there moves him to speak from the heart.  
  
“I'd love to hear more about her . . . about your mother.” And so saying, Bilbo realizes that he knows next to nothing about his house guests and their lives. That he's been so focused on stealing kisses and touches that he's not even gotten to know Bofur and his brothers in the ways that truly matter. “Please, if it wouldn't be too much trouble.”  
  
The three brothers exchange glances and finally turn their eyes on Bilbo.  
  
“Two daughters were born to Lufur, son of Loinus,” Bifur, to Bilbo's surprise, begins in his rough, low voice. “Malonna was the oldest by some years. Eladda, the younger daughter, was born just before Lufur died in a mining accident. My mother, the one who gave birth to me, was the eldest daughter. She died in child-bed. I was raised by Eladda, and she called me son, and I called her mother.   
  
“And so, when my younger cousins finally came along, I called them my brothers, too. And that was how it was. . . .”  
  


*

  
  
That night, dinner has a decidedly occidental flavor. Bombur and Bilbo are in the kitchen for hours.  
  
The scents are enough to drive Bifur and Bofur insane over their game of  _chess_ —Bifur is losing, badly—until finally, they're called to the kitchen.  
  
“Roast pheasant, fresh vegetables, and saffron rice,” Bombur announces, gesturing at the table, which is laid out in the aforementioned foods, and then some. “All courtesy of Mister Baggins.”  
  
“This is . . . incredible, Bilbo,” Bofur says, looking at Bilbo, who blushes. “You're quite the amazing cook.”  
  
“Oh, go on, now,” Bilbo demurs, turning scarlet and waving at the table. “Sit, eat. I know you two must be starving.”  
  
And Bifur does just that, sitting and helping himself without ceremony. Bombur does the same, his eyes alight. And Bofur is quick to pull out Bilbo's chair for him.  
  
“Thank you, love,” Bilbo says, sitting, only belatedly realizing what he'd said. He looks up at Bofur, who's smiling down at him tenderly.  
  
“You're most welcome.” He bends down to kiss Bilbo's forehead and lips—though briefly—then goes around to his own chair with one quick squeeze of Bilbo's shoulders.  
  
“You've . . . done well, Mister Baggins.”  
  
Bilbo finds himself looking at Bifur, who's staring down at his food while shoveling it away.  
  
“With the spices,” Bifur adds, his eyes darting up to Bilbo quickly, then back to his food. “Very well-balanced meal, this is.”  
  
Feeling rather warmed by such praise, Bilbo grins and glances at Bofur, who's smiling. “Why, thank you, Master Bifur.”  
  
Bifur grunts and resumes eating, paying the rest of them no mind.  
  
Bilbo, Bofur, and Bombur exchange glances. Bifur rarely has a word for anyone, full-stop, let alone a  _kind_  one.  
  
Smiling to himself, Bilbo tucks into his own meal. From across the table, he can sense Bofur's gaze, as proud and warm as anything, settled on him. When Bofur's hand covers his own, it's only a moment before Bilbo's turning his hand to link their fingers together.  
  
And so, the evening passes.


End file.
